


Only Human

by englisharpen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Birthday, Christina Perri - Human, Drowning, Emotional Baggage, Faked Suicide, Gen, I Blame Tumblr, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insomnia, John and Mary's Wedding, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock-centric, Sleep Deprivation, Song Lyrics, Songfic, Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-10-15
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:22:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5006380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englisharpen/pseuds/englisharpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christina Perri's <em>Human</em> song!fic.<br/>Because Sherlock Holmes is only human, and people don't seem to get that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Human

**Author's Note:**

> Idrk what happened I just heard Christina Perri's Human song and suddenly I was inspired to write this.  
> Also my Aunt and Grandma are gone all day so I spent three hours writing nonsense and Naruto fanfiction that I'll never publish because REASONS.
> 
> Anyway, there is a lot of confusing things in this, symbolism, angst, whump, hurt/no comfort, and hurt!Sherlock because I'm a really dark weird sadist
> 
> I live for kudos and comments! <3

_I can hold my breath..._

Sherlock stared down at the dark water. His breath hitched as the inky water bubbled. John was down there.

John had fallen down because of him.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. He had to go down there- he had to go save John. As long as John was still down there with the enemy, he was in danger. And since the enemy happened to be carrying a rather heavy bomb (dismantled or not, it was still quite dense) John would sink fast.

The consulting detective shakily took a deep breath and dove into the depths of nothingness.

A split second of falling, floating, rushing towards the dark, and then _HSSSN_ and he hit the surface and dove into the river. Everything felt muted, numb, and cold. Freezing, actually. It was impossible to see anything in the pitch darkness, but Sherlock blindly felt around for John.

His hand grasped on something; a shoulder? An arm? Sherlock clung to it, struggling to breathe.  
How long had he been underwater? It felt like seconds, but it could've been hours.

He pulled, he pulled and thrashed to get up because he couldn't _breathe_ anymore and water was flooding his lungs and-

Sherlock broke the surface of the water, dragging John, the murderer, and a dismantled bomb out of the Thames and onto a very polluted bank. He fell to his knees, coughing up water and shaking and sobbing. John was doing the same by his side. 

The other guy was bloated. Drowned.

Sherlock collapsed face-first into the ground, not registering John's hand on his back, nor the questions and comforting words.

-=-

_I can bite my tongue..._

Sherlock was ecstatic. He had never been fond of his birthday, but now, with John around, he secretly hoped it might be a bit more celebrative. The two of them could play Cluedo, then watch crap telly and laugh about how completely idiotic the characters were, and then they could talk with Mrs. Hudson and try not to yell at her, they could order Chinese takeout and make a cake and-

"Sherlock, I'm going out!" John called from down the hall.

Sherlock froze mid-thought-fantasy. 

"What?" He called back, inwardly grinning. He walked towards the living room where John was. _Perhaps John has planned something special for my Birthday! Perhaps he has already thought of what we are going to do today!_

"I'm going out." John said, glancing up at Sherlock. Sherlock quickly nodded, pulling on his coat and scarf. "Where are we going?" John quirked an eyebrow. 

"I said _I'm_ going out. Meaning, I am going out on a date. With Claire."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Claire? Who is she?"

John sighed, throwing on a jacket and checking his hair in the mirror. "Claire is my date for tonight, and if all goes well... and you stay here and far away from us... she might just become my girlfriend. She might actually think I'm just a normal bloke who doesn't have a sociopathic flatmate, visit crime scenes as a hobby, or lose a girlfriend every other week."

Sherlock tried not to feel offended at the 'sociopathic flatmate' jab. In fact, he was more confused than anything. Was it some kind of joke? 

"What do you mean? I thought that we could spend the day together, since it's my-"

John snorted, effectively silencing the detective. "Nice try, Sherlock. Look, I know you don't like my girlfriends- because they are boring compared to your genius, but seriously! Stop being so selfish and let me just have one day with a girl instead of you! We see each other every day, just give me this one!" 

It was meant to be a joke, but Sherlock felt like he had been kicked in the gut.

The only logical explanation was that John had forgotten about his Birthday. He must've forgotten Sherlock talking about it yesterday.  
He faintly heard Mycroft talking in the back of his mind. _"Don't get attached. Caring is not an advantage, Brother mine."_

Sherlock swallowed. "John, today is..." Sherlock bit his tongue. He couldn't tell John- if he did that'd be selfish and emotionally manipulative. He really was a sociopath, wasn't he? Sherlock forced a smile at John's questioning look. "Today is actually going to be busy for me. So I suppose I couldn't have any free time anyway."

John lit up happily. "That's a good coincidence! See you later tonight! Or tomorrow, if you know what I mean." John laughed, winked, and rushed out the door. After hearing it slam shut, Sherlock sat down and quietly sipped his tea, wondering why he cared so much what John remembered and thought and did. He buried his head in his arms and blocked out the world, slipping into his mind palace.

It wasn't until the next morning, and John was waking up in Claire's bed, that he remembered yesterday had been Sherlock's birthday- the one he had been looking forward to and gushing about for days beforehand. John groaned, his heart clenching painfully at how stupid he had been. 

-=-

_I can stay awake for days, if that's what you want... Be your number one..._

Lestrade was exhausted. This case really was doing a number on him. He had been sleeping four hours a night, for two weeks, and the case still had no leads. He had his best people on the case, and he also had Anderson working on it. (Because the two did _not_ belong in the same group.)

Sherlock was also on the case, and with John's help, the two of them had gotten farther than anyone at Scotland Yard could've, but still the case seemed hopeless. 

Greg jolted awake from a sleep he didn't remember going into. 

He groaned, rubbing his eyes and swigging more coffee. Donovan rushed into his office with a stack of papers. "Freak's done it! Freak's found a lead!" She cried, fanning out the papers across his already-messy desk. She was quickly followed by Doctor Watson, who also looked tired, Anderson, who looked frustrated, and Sherlock, who looked half-dead.

Not an over-exaggeration, either. He was paler than usual; which was saying something. He had huge, dark rings around his eyes like he hadn't slept in months. He was far too skinny, and his usually perfect hair was a tangled mess. His eyes had a sheen glaze over them, and so bloodshot Lestrade almost cried just looking at them. "Sherlock?!" He gaped, observing the detective. Sherlock warily looked at him. "Yes! Right... lead... right. Found a lead. Case. There is a lead on the case, I found it. It was the aunt, obvious. Obvious. Aunt."

John sighed. "He gets like this sometimes. I try to get him to sleep and eat, but he doesn't do any of it while on a case."

Sherlock started falling over, and John quickly stabled him. 

Donovan was still jumping around. "The freak's done it, see! We've taken the aunt in for questioning and although she hasn't confessed, she said a name: Astrid Peterson! We just have to track her down and case solved!"

The detective inspector nodded, not really taking in the information. His eyes were still fixed on Sherlock. 

"Alright. Donovan, Anderson, go... er... hunt him down."

"It's a woman, sir!"

"She, then. Hurry."

Donovan and Anderson shared a look, but ran off to join the search team. John hurriedly helped Sherlock sit down. He was asleep immediately.   
The doctor sighed, checking Sherlock's forehead. "Bastard. Idiot. Bloody git." He murmured, carefully taking off the signature coat and scarf. "He's stayed awake this entire case, give or take a few minutes of pure exhaustion. He's been surviving off tea and two pieces of toast I literally shoved down his throat. It really isn't healthy."

Lestrade shook his head. And he thought that _he_ hadn't gotten enough sleep. Jesus. 

"Well, the case is as good as solved, because of him. I'll go get the poor bloke some food, you try to keep him asleep." John nodded and Lestrade walked out of his office, wondering why on Earth he continued asking Sherlock on cases if it was destroying the man.

_Because he's the only one who can do it._ A voice in the back of Greg's head said softly. Lestrade laughed dryly. "Bless his soul."

-=-

_I can fake a smile..._

Sherlock watched as John looked at Mary.

He knew that look. It meant John loved Mary, it meant John would do anything for Mary, and it meant that John cared about Mary more than anyone else- including himself. 

Sherlock knew that look because it was a look he had sent to John quite a lot. He knew that look because he had found himself with 'the look' whenever he looked at John. It nearly killed him seeing John give 'the look' to someone else.

The logical part of Sherlock nagged at him. 'John isn't gay'. 'Mary is good for him'. And by far, the worst- 'Mary was there for him while you selfishly played a suicide game with him'. The illogical part of Sherlock hated Mary. He hated that he had known John for years when Mary had known him for only one. He hated that John wanted to marry her. He hated that she made him smile in a way that Sherlock would never be able to.

But John was happy, so Sherlock smiled.

John was laughing, so Sherlock smiled.

Albeit fake, everyone seemed to believe it, so Sherlock smiled. 

Sherlock watched as John and Mary danced together, beaming, staring into eachother's eyes. He smiled as they spun away, leaving him in a crowded room of strangers. He smiled as he thought back to the good memories he had with John. He smiled as he thought of how he may never see or work with John again.

"Marriage changes people." Mrs. Hudson had said. John had told him nothing was going to change, but this was going to change everything. 

Sherlock smiled as he thought of how they would never want their child to know who Sherlock was. How they would move out and keep 'forgetting' about him. He thought of how he would return to his old ways of a junkie, a recluse, a sociopath.

Sherlock kept smiling as he walked out, alone. It wasn't like he was planning on staying anyway- he didn't have anyone to dance with. Molly and Lestrade were all over each other, John obviously had Mary, and that... girl... Amber? Jane? Janine, was it? Well, even Janine had found someone to dance with.   
Sherlock wondered why he had bothered learning how to dance. He had known all along that he couldn't dance with John on his wedding- not even as friends. People would talk.

As Sherlock walked away and into the dark streets, he let the smile slip off his face.

-=-

_I can force a laugh..._

Sherlock started laughing, almost hysterically. He was either going to start laughing or burst into sobs, and laughing seemed like a better option to keep his sociopathic persona going. John gaped, eyes rolling back and angrily throwing his hands in the air. "You cock!" He yelled, ranting on.

Sherlock was barely listening. He was having trouble breathing, really. He didn't know why he was laughing. Maybe it was because he had saved the day once again. Maybe because he had selfishly emotionally manipulated John into forgiving him just seconds ago. Maybe he was laughing because he was _alive_ , and John was _alive_ , and it was just like the old times when Mary hadn't come in and Sherlock hadn't committed suicide.

So Sherlock laughed, even when it wasn't funny anymore. He laughed and laughed and laughed because it was hilarious, really! It was absolutely _priceless_ and he had no goddamn idea why.

He had saved them, sure. But it really hadn't been all that difficult. There was a bloody 'on/off' switch, of course it wasn't bloody difficult. He had only wanted to hear the truth. If John thought he was going to die he was sure to say exactly what he thought.

Although, Sherlock had been more expecting an, "You've ruined everything! My life, Mary's life, our baby's life, and the lives of anyone and everyone above this bomb!"

He had not been expecting forgiveness. 

And so when John forgave him, it was absolutely side-splitting. Because Sherlock didn't believe it for a second. He played it off as a joke, and he let it go. He couldn't keep John wound around his little finger.

So Sherlock laughed, even if it wasn't funny. He laughed because it might just be the last time he laughed with John. He laughed because it reminded him of the first case they had together- a Study in Pink. It reminded him of the first time they laughed together in the cab. _"Piss off."_ It reminded him of everything in between and afterwards, and Sherlock didn't want it to end.

But Sherlock wasn't going to keep manipulating his only friend.

So Sherlock stopped laughing.

-=-

_I can dance and play the part if that's what you ask... give you all I am..._

Sherlock kept telling himself it was his purpose.

Solving cases.  
Proving his genius.   
Showing the world that he could solve anything.

The great Sherlock Holmes. The first and only consulting detective in the world. 

If the Yard told him to solve a case, he'd solve it. If they told him to hunt someone down, he hunted them down. If they told him to risk his life, he'd gladly do it. He was a bit like a music box. The officers put a coin in and watched him work the magic. Then the officers took back the coin, and if he wanted it back, he'd have to go again.

He never got the coin.  
He never got approval.

Instead, he solved cases for them, and in return, they insulted him, mocked him, and threatened him.

Sherlock wanted that approval- he wanted the coin. So no matter how many times they turned him down, he still kept going in a desperate hope that one day he could get the coin. Deep down he knew it was a lost cause.

But if he stopped, then what else was there for him? If a music box stops playing music, it's considered broken and useless. 

Sherlock Holmes refused to be useless. 

So he kept dancing.

-=-

_But I'm only human! I bleed when I fall down- I'm only human! And I crash and I break down- your words in my head are knives in my heart. You build me up and then I fall apart because I'm only human! Yeah..._

-=-

_I can turn it on... be a good machine..._

Sherlock looked down at the body, raising an eyebrow. Blood was splattered across the room, looking almost too cliched. Words, numbers, and footnotes appeared randomly across his eyes. He read them aloud to the Scotland Yard officers, DI Lestrade, and John. 

"Sixteen, male, Indian origin. He worked at a mobile phone company but apparently one of his hobbies was baking."

He hardly noticed everyone gaping.

"Girlfriend was cheating on him- scratch that, spouse. Whoever they were cheating with didn't like him very much. Murder. Staged to look like suicide, meaning the body was killed somewhere else and then brought here, because he was strangled and there is blood everywhere- blood that isn't his. So the murderer has a thing for horror movies- idiot. Obvious. Stupid."

He ignored the rest of the notes and quickly searched through his mind palace index. "Yorkshire. Come on, hurry." And with that he whirled out of the room.

Donovan smirked. "And that, John, is why we haven't had him arrested yet. The freak is like a bloody GPS." John frowned at the insult of calling Sherlock a tool to be discarded when they saw fit, but he said nothing.

The case had really been too easy. Sherlock lay on the couch that night, wondering if he was getting rusty. He glanced out the window and saw a group of teenage boys running around, probably away from police. He quickly summarized their life. 

Parents dead.

Junkie.

Mechanic.

Overweight. (That was easy.)

Sherlock frowned to himself. Was he getting rusty? If his deducing talents started fading away, he wouldn't be needed. John stayed for the adrenalin rush, Scotland Yard kept him going because he could solve cases easily. If he started going downhill, John would leave, the Yard would stop giving him cases, and he would lose everything.

Sherlock looked around the flat.

John cleaned.

Mrs. Hudson dusted.

John lost his mobile phone this morning.

Mycroft was here, probably putting in cameras.

...Or eating all the cake.

Sherlock snickered at that. He wasn't too rusty. He just had to keep his talent alive as long as possible, and he wouldn't be alone.

-=-

_I can hold the weight of worlds if that's what you need... be your everything..._

Sherlock didn't squeeze back.

Sherlock didn't look into John's devastated face.

Sherlock didn't tell John the truth.

Instead, he did his best to make the last call quick and short and unemotional. It got really emotional. Sherlock did his best not to cry, but he couldn't help it. He was leaving England for god knows how long, and he had no idea if he was ever going to see John again. Or if he was going to see London again. Or the light of day again.

So he jumped, he worked his magic, he made John have a panic attack, he was wheeled away, and his last glance of John had been John screaming his name while he threw himself off the roof of a hospital.

Sherlock didn't want to go.

Sherlock didn't want to make John watch.

Sherlock didn't regret anything.

Sure, he knew John would be furious. He was aware that faking his suicide and going to tie up the loose ends with Moriarty _was_ suicide. He ended up being tortured in a Serbian cell. He had gotten shot multiple times, nearly died over twenty times, he nearly bled out in a desert, nearly was beheaded in an alleyway, and almost got malaria. Not from mosquitoes, from a psychotic banker. (Don't ask.)

But Sherlock didn't regret a moment. 

He knew that John would grieve, but John had others in his life. He had Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, his friends from uni, and Sherlock knew Mycroft would take care of him. Molly, Donovan, and even Anderson had always liked John. Obviously John would also find someone, a girl probably. 

John didn't need Sherlock the way Sherlock needed John. So Sherlock decided to take it upon himself and sort things out without John, and let John stay happy while he dealt with the more unpleasant things.

And if John hated him afterwards, Sherlock would let him.

Sherlock was fine taking the blame.

-=-

But he's only human.

People don't seem to understand that.

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully you all enjoyed...
> 
> I probably failed at writing sad emotional things, but if you cried (or if you could've cried or if someone else cried etc) please comment. XD I'm desperate for reviews and feedback.
> 
> ConCrit is great but don't be condescending or rude. There's a difference between kind ConCrit and rude ConCrit.
> 
> Love you all!~~


End file.
